


HSO - Play At Home Edition

by conceptofzero



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-23
Updated: 2012-06-23
Packaged: 2017-11-08 08:55:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/441434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/conceptofzero/pseuds/conceptofzero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With HOMESTUCK SHIPPING OLYMPICS Play At Home Edition, Fanfiction Is More Exciting than Ever. HSO-P@H Edition now has four rounds of the most revolutionary prompt-inspired fanworks developed by HSO Mods that will challenge both the casual and tournament tested fanwork creator. Battle the calender with brain-teasing short stories, then step-up to the challenge and beat your previous collab round! HSO-P@H Edition is enough to keep casual creators engaged for hours and turn serious creators into HSO masters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

ROUND ONE: GAMBLING  
Chapter 2: Crowbar <3 Snowman  
Chapter 3: Trace Fin


	2. Gambling - Crowbar/Snowman

The Midnight Casino cuts an imposing figure on the edges of Downtown, the garish red neon lights on the marquee giving everything a bloodsoaked look. The sinister appearance doesn’t deter too many people, and they head inside to gamble what they’ve got on a chance to get much, much more. Light reflects off dark and light shells of those who step inside, and they look ugly by that bloody light. Even though he’s standing across the street, a little of the red light reflects on Crowbar’s hands and face. It makes him look like a hard man, the kind who cares for nothing but himself.

Snowman can’t see herself, but she knows that the red light must make her look harsh as well. Her features, already striking, must be razor sharp thanks to that sickly glow. The stock of her whip sits in her hand, her fingers curled into the grooves left from use. Beside her, Crowbar holds his namesake in his hands, the clawed head waiting to be put to proper use. Part of the Felt stands behind them, waiting impatiently for the signal to come.

On the other side of town, the rest of the Felt are serving as a sort of bait for the Crew. The Midnight Crew knows nothing about bait, only that the Felt has pissed them off and they need to be dealt with. By the time they realize that things were a distraction, it will be too late, and every last penny from the Midnight Casino’s vault will be at the Felt Mansion.

Stealing from the Crew is risky enough. Robbing their casino? Slick’s going to lose it, and he’s going to lose it in a big way. There’s no chance they’ll escape this one without some bloodshed. And she’s fine with that. Let Slick come for his pound of flesh, his pint of blood. If they pull this off, they can ruin the Crew for good.

The radio deep in Crowbar’s pocket squawks and he draws it out as Doze reports in. He’s excited, his voice not as stumbled and slow as it usually is. “The Crew took the bait... they’re at the... warehouse.”

“Keep them busy until we give the signal.” Crowbar radios back, slipping it back into his pockets. He catches Snowman’s eye, his face bathed in red, and nods toward the casino. “Kill the lights.”

Her lips pull into a brief smile, teeth showing for a second and slipping behind her lips a moment later. Snowman steps out from the alley they’ve been waiting in, her whip uncoiling as she move forward. There are men and women gathered outside the casino, drunk and smoking like chimneys. A few of them recognize her and begin to back away, knowing there’s nothing good to be found when the Felt come into the Crew’s territory. Snowman swings her arm low, her hand clenching her whip stock tight, and brings it up swiftly.

The diamond shatters first, glass crashing over the pavement. Next is the heart, and the neon tubes hiss as their coloured gas is freed forever. She takes out the letters with quick vicious strikes, the razor-sharp whip cutting through the glass like it was nothing but air. People scream as the glass falls, and people run away, leaving Snowman alone on the now-dark steps of the Casino.

Here come the Felt, those who were chosen for tonight’s mission. Sawbuck carts a shotgun in his arms, and he kicks open the doors, striding through. She hears the boom as it blows a hole in whatever security Slick has running the place. Quarters follows, his mini-gun resting against his hip as he makes his way in the place. Then Crowbar’s at her elbow and he meets her eyes again. The harsh light is gone, but the hard look is still there.

They walk into the place like they own it. Quarter’s mini-gun whirls to life and roars, tearing up tables and smashing slot machines. People run for their lives, and the Felt lets them slip by. There are a few bodies here and there, Casino security that’s decided they’d rather take their chances fighting the Felt than with a pissed-off Slick. Not all of the guards do, and she spots a number of them leaving with the crowds.

A gun appears behind an overturned poker table, aiming in the general direction of the Felt. She’s not quick enough to stop the first shot, which hits Fin in the shoulder and spins him to the right. Snowman’s quick enough to stop the second, her whip closing around the Prospitian’s wrist and yanking him over the table. She’s quicker on the draw than he could ever hope to be, and the moment she gets a bead on him, she blows his head off. He collapses, and she lets the tension out, the whip loosening and slipping off the wrist a second later.

“Son of a bitch!” Fin curses, blood coursing down his shoulder. It’s already lessening, Stitch putting him back together in no time flat. The bullet pushes out of the wound and hits the ground, just another sound lost among the general din.

“Keep moving.” Crowbar gives the order and they follow, heading for the vault. The security’s all gone by the time they reach the backroom. Even Slick seems like good odds when you’re facing down a mini-gun. Cans gets a look at the large safe and cracks his knuckles stepping up to the plate. His fingers dig into the steel like it was warm butter, and once he’s got a grip, he yanks it to the side. The metal groans as the hinges break and Cans easily rips it off the wall, dropping it on the ground. The Felt moves forward, stepping over the twisted door and into the vault.

It’s been a good night in the casino. There are stacks of money on the shelves, sorted by bill size, and bags and bags of loose change waiting to be deposited at the bank. Quarters and Sawbuck stay on guard while the rest of the Felt packs up everything they can carry. They’ve got the van idling out back, Itchy waiting in the driver’s seat with an eye on the road in case the Crew gets wind of things.

Cans throws in the last few bags of coins and cash, climbing in himself. Quarters follows and the truck, weighed down by the weight of the men and the money, creaks and rumbles as the doors are slammed shut. Itchy leans out the window, grinning back at Crowbar. “What would you do if I disappeared with this?” 

“I wouldn’t be worried about what I’d do. I’d be worried about what Scratch would do.” Crowbar calls back, and Itchy just laughs it off, leaning back in. The truck peels out of the lot, heading towards the Mansion. Now there’s just one last thing left to do. Crowbar brings the radio to his mouth, pressing the button. “Clear out. We’re finishing up.”

The Felt head back into the casino. There’s plenty of liquor behind the bar, and they pour it out across the floor, over the gambling tables and throughout the offices, until the air is thick with vapours. They keep one bottle, and Crowbar tucks his handkerchief in the neck, wishing the whiskey around until it’s good and damp. Holding by the bottom, he tips the bottle towards Snowman.

Her lighter is in her coat. She snaps it open, conjuring a flame from the striker. The handkerchief catches fire quickly, and Crowbar wastes no time in throwing it. The bottle smashes in the entrance, flames burning hot and blue as they spread over the waiting fuel. The rest of the Felt heads out, putting distance between themselves and the burning building, everyone except Snowman and Crowbar.

For the second time that night, they’re bathed in light. The flames cast white light as they lick their way up the wooden supports and engulf the roof. Crowbar no longer looks like a hard man with that white light reflecting off his face; he looks like a good man, a proud man. The light washes over her own features, and when he looks at her, she can see herself in his eyes.

She looks beautiful and terrible.

Sirens whine in the distance, responding to the clouds of thick dark smoke clouding the skyline, to the bright light in the dark of night. Snowman leans down and Crowbar tilts his head up to meet her halfway in a kiss. Her eyes close and she feels the fire’s heat on her cheek and the warmth of Crowbar’s mouth as it opens in the presence of her own. It doesn’t last long. The police are coming. The Crew will be coming soon. But for a moment, she just lets herself enjoy her moment of triumph.

They part as the sirens grow louder. Snowman takes his hand and they take one last look at the burning casino. There’s no going back from this. Her hand squeezes his as she fades, Crowbar fading with her, the white lights fading into familiar green.


	3. Gambling - Trace&Fin

Trace is in the middle of a game when Fin sidles up beside him, leaning right in Trace’s way. “I need my wallet.”

“Why, you buying us both a drink?” He hip-checks Fin aside, lining up his shot again. There’s some money riding on this and he’d rather it end up in his pockets than in his opponent’s.

“Just give me my fucking wallet.” Fin sounds desperate, which means the asshole found someone willing to make bets with him. Who knows what they’re even betting on, but Trace knows that whatever it is, Fin’s going to lose. And it isn’t like he’s going to lose because it’s a bad bet. He’s going to lose because he never knows when to walk away with his winnings instead of pissing them all away while trying to grab the brass ring that’s always out of arm’s reach.

“You can wait until I’m done my game.” Trace takes the shot. Fin ‘accidentally’ bumps the table, causing the balls to roll slightly off kilter, not only ruining Trace’s shot, but the entire game. His Prospitian opponent narrows her eyes and picks her money up off the table, walking away without another word. Trace turns on Fin, giving him a hard shove. “You fucking asshole, I had that in the bag!”

“And now you’ve got nothing.” Fin grabs Trace’s stake off the table and crams it in his pocket. He darts just out of reach when Trace gives a swipe at him. “Give me my wallet.”

“Give me my fucking cash.” Trace puts his hand out, and when Fin doesn’t give it back, he tries to get it back by force. The problem with Fin is that he’s a fucking devil to fight with since he can always see what you’re going to do before you do it, so by the time Trace gets his hands near Fin’s pockets, Fin’s already pulling away again. “Give it here asshole.”

“Calling me names really makes me want to give it back.” Fin sneers, and his ugly mug just looks uglier when he’s trying to look smug. “If you’ve given me my wallet like I asked-”

“In case you forgot in the hour we’ve been here, I’m holding onto your wallet because you asked me to.” Trace should have told Fin to take a hike when he asked to come along. He’s getting real tired of being that asshole’s purse strings just because he’s got no self restraint. “Last time we went out, I gave you your wallet and you pissed every penny away. And then I had to listen to you bitch about that for a month.”

“So? Nobody’s forcing you to listen to me. Give me my fucking wallet.” Fin attempts to get a hand into Trace’s pocket this time around, but Trace smacks his hand away with the pool cue. “Fuck you-”

“Fuck you for putting me in this situation! I’m trying to be a good friend and you’re acting like a fucking baby.” Trace does his best to calm himself down, giving a deep sigh before trying to reason with the asshole again. “Just give me back my cash, we’ll blow this joint and go back to the mansion, and then I’ll give you back your wallet and nobody will lose any money tonight. How about that?”

For half a second, he thinks maybe it’ll work. But then he sees Fin’s eyes harden and he knows that nothing he said sunk into that thick skull of his. “Fine, keep my wallet, and I’ll keep your cash. I’ll double it in thirty seconds.”

Fin turns his back on Trace to head back to the assholes he’s made a bet with. Trace nearly smacks him over the head with the pool cue, but that’s a one way ticket out of this bar and he likes it. He also knows he’s not going to do it since there’s no way Fin would turn his back on Trace if he could see that coming.

Instead, Trace hooks his hand into Fin’s coak and yanks him hard to the right, pulling him outside. There’s a fire exit at the back and they pop out into the alleyway. The only other person out here is a drunk is pissing up against the wall, and when he sees who’s standing behind him, he quickly staggers away from them, too rushed to even remember to zip up.

“That’s my fucking cash and I want it back.” Trace throws Fin up against the nearest wall, feeling all sorts of pissed off. “I said-”

“I heard you.” Fin pulls the cash out, an ugly sneer on his face. He makes out like he’s about to put it in Trace’s hand, only to throw it on the ground at the last second, aiming for the puddle of cooling urine against the dumpster. Fin hits it dead on, and there goes fifty fucking dollars. And that’s about the time Trace takes a swing at him.

The fight doesn’t last long. Fin’s got foresight on his side, but Trace is fucking angry, and knowing how the future’s going to go doesn’t mean you get to avoid it when it starts to go bad. Trace is pissed and he just keeps hitting Fin in the face and neck, hitting that fucking right on his super sensitive nose until he’s down on his knees and bleeding like a faucet. Fin doesn’t just take it, and by the time Trace stumbles out of biting range, he’s got a nasty bite on his thigh and his fists are all cut up to hell and back.

“You know what, fuck you! Throw away your cash!” He digs out Fin’s wallet and drops it in the same piss puddle his fifty bucks are marinating in. “And when you can’t pay them what you owe, maybe you’ll get lucky and they’ll only beat you half to death.”

Fin lunges up at Trace, moving faster than he has any right to. His teeth are in Trace’s shoulder a second later, tearing and grinding against the bone. Trace howls and digs his fingers into Fin’s face, seeking out his eyes. He finds out, jamming his thumb in hard until Fin has no choice but to loosen his grip or go blind. Fin stagger back and Track hits him, and they both slam into each other and end up on the alleyway floor. It’s filthy and he knows he’s getting grime all over his suit, but he doesn’t care.

It’s a fight that’s been a long time coming, which means that it drags on long after it should have ended, both of them bleeding and dirty and tired still punching and biting at each other. It’s Trace who finally wins in the end, and he’s got to fight dirty to do so, slamming an elbow into Fin’s stomach and knocking the breath out of him. While he’s trying desperately to suck in some air, Trace gets to his feet and stumbles away, blood splattering on the ground. His skin itches at Stitch puts him back together, his wounds melting back into his body. “Fuck you Fin! I hope they yank all your teeth out!”

Fin finally gets some air in his lungs, and in a strangled voice, he returns the threat. “Fu-ck you Trace.”

“I’ll tell Stitch not to bother sewing your ragged ass up, since you’re just going to get torn apart again in another hour or two!” Trace snarls, and then spits at Fin before storming out of the alley. He stinks from rolling around on the floor, and he heads for the nearest hotel, planning on getting a shower and maybe seeing if he can sweet talk Snowman into bringing him a change of clothes in exchange for keeping track of Slick for her.

Trace doesn’t get the spare clothes, but he gets a shower and room service, and he gets the bellhop to launder his shit for him in exchange for a twenty. He simmers with rage for another few hours until he gets tired enough to crash. By the time morning rolls around, his clothes are clean and waiting just inside the door, and he’s got a killer hangover.

He finds his way back to the bar by the light of day. The lights are all off; everybody’s gone home to sleep until the afternoon rolls around. He steps around vomit and broken glass, finding his way to the alley.

The alleyway looks even worse for wear in the light of day. There are past trails littering the place. A dozen drunks, one who’s still sleeping in the same place he fell last night, and a pair of lovers too drunk to care about the location. He spends a little too long looking at their tangled trails before his eyes slide down and he finds Fin’s trail, all mixed up in his own from the fight.

Trace follows the trail as Fin picks himself up, and then fishes the wallet and fifty bucks out of the puddle with nowhere near the amount of shame he should. He pulls a face, watching as Fin goes back into the bar. His trail emerges from another side door a few hours later, only this time he’s not alone. A few large ‘friends’ accompany him out. He can see Fin looking back over his shoulder, staring straight at Trace’s future-trail.

“You dumb fucking asshole.” Trace mutters to himself. It is way too early for this. Nobody would blame him if he left Fin and headed off to a diner to get something greasy to eat.

Instead, he tugs his hat down to keep the light out of his eyes and follows Fin’s trail, hoping he’s still in one piece when Trace finds him.


End file.
